I Want to Hear You Say It
by SweeneyOCD98
Summary: Instead of making Sherlock say he doesn't want to die, Culverton Smith forces Sherlock to repeatedly confess that he loves John before his death.
1. Chapter 1

Sherlock felt like hell. His ribs ached from sharp kicks, there was a cut next to his eyebrow, his left eye burned and was probably bloodshot, and that was only how he felt externally. Internally, he felt downright _ill_ , and he knew the drugs were to blame. He couldn't recall ever feeling this badly, not even when he was young and Mycroft had to drag him to a hospital after an overdose. But this time, he was almost forty. It would take much longer for his body to recover from this. Being off his tits on hard drugs for weeks had dire consequences. He let out a long, pained breath through his nose, the beeping of the heart monitor the only sound he registered.

And yet, he could sense a presence at his bedside.

Sherlock opened his eyes, and there he was: Culverton Smith. He knew it. He knew his plan would work, and he knew what was to come next. This would be painful, and he dreaded it. But it had to be done. Culverton had to be stopped.

"You've been ages waking up," Smith said quietly. "I watched you. It's quite lovely, in its way."

Sherlock's insides rolled with repulsion. It reminded him of when Magnussen came into his hospital room, touching him while he was drugged, semi-conscious, and helpless. This felt eerily similar. Sherlock gulped.

Culverton continued in his slimy, soft voice, "Take it easy, it's okay. Don't want to rush this." He smiled, showing his discolored teeth. "You're Sherlock Holmes."

Despite this being part of the plan, Sherlock felt a ripple of anxiety course through his veins. He didn't want to be hurt. He hoped John would arrive soon. A small voice asked in his head if John would arrive at all, but he dismissed it. _John will come. He has to._

Playing the game, Sherlock asked, voice hoarse from disuse, "How did you get in?"

Culverton looked pleased with himself. "Can't you guess?"

Sherlock didn't guess-he knew.

Culverton said, "Secret door. I built this whole wing. I can slip in and out anywhere I like, you know..." He paused, looking like he was struggling to control himself. "When I get the urge," he finished.

Sherlock kept quiet, but inside, he was satisfied. He was right. He wasn't crazy. He was still the genius detective. _Still the detective that impressed John,_ his mind supplied, and Sherlock held back a wince. He had to stop thinking that. He had work to do. He couldn't get distracted. He couldn't think of John now. _You always think of him,_ his treacherous brain taunted him.

Culverton was looking at him curiously. "Why are you here?" he asked, and seemed genuinely confused. "It's like you walked into my den and laid down in front of me."

Sherlock looked down. Part of it was to play the role, but another part, a part which frightened him, knew there was some truth to what he was about to say.

"Why?" Culverton pressed on.

Sherlock looked up, his heart heavy. "I want you to kill me."

Culverton walked closer to the bed, resting a gloved hand on one of the rails. "We can make it look like an accident. If you increase the dosage four or five times," he referred to the saline being shot into Sherlock's bloodstream, "it would knock you out in about a half hour. Then, I restore the settings. People would think you just gave up the ghost."

"Yes," Sherlock said. His ribs were aching. In his condition, giving up the ghost would have been completely believable.

Culverton took off his jacket. "Before we start, tell me how you feel."

Sherlock dealt with many killers in his life, but Culverton had to be among the most disgusting. The pure joy he got from his victims' suffering made Sherlock want to throttle him, but he had to stay still. He had to let Culverton hurt him, at least until John came. John would come. Right? _What if he didn't?_

"I feel scared," Sherlock admitted weakly.

Culverton scoffed, as if it were a ridiculous thing to say when about the face death. "Be more specific! You only get to do this once."

His heart started to beat faster, the beeps from the monitor quickening. "I'm...scared of dying." It was true. He was scared of the end. That was one of the reasons why, even now, when he was alone in the world without his best friend, he hadn't tried anything. He had to get Culverton behind bars, and that was his motivation throughout the past few weeks, but after this? If John did come for him, but was still angry, and still didn't want to talk...He didn't know what he would do. The situation was clawing at his heart, tearing him into bits, and it was _unbearable_. He told Faith-or his hallucination of Faith-that her life was not her own, but without John to look after him, who else would want Sherlock to stay alive? Mycroft? Mrs. Hudson? Mummy and Dad? They didn't matter. Not nearly as much as John. A horrifying question was at the forefront of his mind: would John care if he died?

 _Stop it, he's going to come!_ Sherlock scolded himself. His mind was in ruins.

Culverton rolled up his sleeves. "But you wanted this."

"I have reasons," Sherlock said vaguely.

"But you don't actually _want_ to die."

"No," he said. But, was that true? "Yes. No."

Culverton looked delighted. "Oh, you're conflicted? I like that. I like that very much," he said softly. "You don't actually want to die, do you? But there's something that's making you miserable. I'd like to know what that is."

Sherlock swallowed again. The image of John, looking up at him with fury in his eyes as he held Mary's corpse, invaded his mind without warning, and he couldn't stop the deep, sorrowful frown from coming onto his face.

"Oh, there it is," Culverton said in wonder. "You're thinking of it, I can tell."

Sherlock's throat was tight. He felt ashamed.

"I want you to tell me," Culverton said playfully, leaning in. "I won't do it unless you tell me."

Sherlock's eyes darted around the room, as if looking for a way out, but he did this to himself.

"Is it that doctor fellow?"

Sherlock's eyes squeezed shut.

"It is," Culverton said in amusement. "But, is he why you want to live, or die?"

Tears stung behind Sherlock's eyelids. John turned his life around in a way no one else could. John was his conductor of light, his heart, his soul. He brought out the best in him, made Sherlock be a better man, better than he ever thought he could be. John was his favorite person.

John _despised_ him.

Sherlock's jaw trembled. "I don't know," he confessed, voice small.

"Open your eyes for me."

Sherlock did, and to his mortification, his vision was blurry.

Culverton's smile widened. "Lovely. This is better than I thought it would be. You continue to surprise me, Mr. Holmes."

He needed to get the subject back to Culverton's crimes. "This isn't the only reason, or the main reason why I'm doing this. I needed to hear you confess. I needed to know I was right."

"Does it matter, though?" he asked. "You're right, but your little doctor thinks you're off your rocker. Don't you care about what he thinks?"

The question felt like a jab to his heart.

When he said nothing, Culverton chuckled quietly. "That's what I thought. But, why do you need to die? You could have proven yourself right in another way and offed yourself later."

Sherlock felt rattled, his insides cold. It hurt to have someone else know how he felt. "The mortuary-you talk to the dead."

"Very good, Mr. Holmes," Culverton nodded. "Very good."

"Why do you kill?"

"Oh, it's not out of hatred, or revenge. It just makes me…" he sighed in bliss, "incredibly happy."

Sherlock felt angry that this man was able to get away with murder for god-knows how long, only because of his money. This was the moment of irrefutable proof, though, that would be used against him once the police listened to the recording device in John's cane. _Gotcha._

"But let's talk more about you," Culverton said. "That John Watson really means a lot to you." It wasn't a question.

"He does," Sherlock said quietly.

"You know each other a long time?"

"A few years, yes."

"You like having him around?"

"Yes."

How'd it feel when he beat you?"

Sherlock bit his lower lip and he looked away, turning his eyes to the wall. He was breathing heavily, and for once in his life, he wished he had listened to Mycroft. Caring was not an advantage, but he could not stop loving John even if he tried. Loving John was a part of him that could never be removed. Every breath he took was for John, in one way or another. But if John never wanted to see him again, was his life worth living? John saved him so many times and in so many ways. Without John, and the warmth and constancy of his friendship, Sherlock didn't know if he could survive. He had grown not only accustomed, but dependent to John's companionship. He remembered the look of pure awe John gave him when Angelo showed up to 221B with his cane, and then the look of hatred in his eyes as he stared down at Sherlock as he coughed up blood on the floor of the morgue. How did this happen? How did everything go so wrong between them?

 _Mary,_ his mind supplied.

"Well?" Culverton prompted. "How'd it feel? I saw it happen. Quite violent, wasn't it? I even felt sorry for you."

Sherlock still couldn't look at him. He wasn't sure if he ever felt this vulnerable in his entire life, physically and emotionally. "You know how it felt," he snapped.

"I want to hear you say it," Culverton whispered.

Sherlock's breath quivered, and it was difficult to keep his voice steady. "It-hurt."

"Tell me more."

"I didn't expect it."

"You thought he cared about you more."

 _He does care about me,_ a stubborn voice said. _No, he doesn't,_ answered another. Sherlock let out a sigh in frustration. The auditory hallucinations from the drugs were not helping.

"Are you in love with him?" Culverton asked. "I wouldn't be surprised. I saw the way you were looking at him. It was quite sweet, really. Until you had a psychotic breakdown and he punched you in the face, that is."

Sherlock's jaw hurt from clenching it so tightly. He closed his eyes, feeling two tears escape the corners of his eyes. He cursed inwardly. He was completely broken. If someone told him a year ago, or even six months ago, that he would cry in front of a serial killer because he was in love with John, he would have scoffed. How far he had fallen.

"Lovely," Culverton marvelled. "Just lovely."

His face burned from humiliation, his body ached from John's blows and the drugs, and would ending it all really be that bad? He used to dream of being enveloped in John's arms, being held close after kisses. He never imagined John hurting him. But John was not in a good place, he remembered. He was depressed and it was because Sherlock's foolishness killed Mary. Sherlock didn't blame John, but it still hurt.

"Say it," Culverton urged. "Say how you feel about him."

Sherlock let out a small, shuddering gasp. He was so pathetic, crying in a hospital bed, obeying the will of his soon-to-be killer. "I love John."

"Say it again."

"I love John," his voice shook.

"Look at me."

Sherlock's head rolled on the pillow and he reluctantly looked up at Culverton.

Culverton unfastened his cuff links, getting ready. "Again."

"I love John," he said, voice rough and weak. His eyes burned from his tears. He fantasized about confessing his love before, but never like this. It was never supposed to be like this. "I love John," his voice broke with a sob, and he bit his lip and turned his face away again, weeping.

"This is the best night of my life," Culverton whispered, fingers twitching in anticipation. "None of the others were as fun as you."

Sherlock forced himself to stop crying, looking back at Culverton with quivering lips and wet cheeks.

"I'm getting impatient," Culverton said, and he raised his hands.

 _This is it,_ Sherlock thought with a spike of fear.

He placed one gloved hand over Sherlock's mouth, and the other over his nose, and pressed down hard. Sherlock's instincts flared and his hands flew to Culverton's hands, gripping them, his legs starting to kick and flail under the sheet. The latex was smothering him, his throat was so tight it hurt, and his chest was on _fire_. This was worse than he thought. His lungs were screaming for air as Culverton spoke to him.

"Bet you never thought you'd go out like this," he murmured, his eyes dancing with glee. "Did you think he would be there when you died? Did you think you'd die in his arms?"

The heart monitor was going wild, and Culverton's words would have stung more if Sherlock's brain weren't focused on trying to keep him alive.

"Thank you for this, Mr. Holmes," Culverton

Sherlock was panicking, writhing in the bed.

"Maintain eye contact," he commanded.

Sherlock struggled to look up at him.

"I like to watch it happen," he whispered.

All of the strength was being sucked out of Sherlock's limbs, and his hands fell weakly away from Culverton's hands and onto the bed. His vision was going black, his eyes closing on their own accord, the heart monitor giving one long, monotone beep.

Then, Culverton's hands were off him and Sherlock immediately started gasping for air. The heart monitor kicked up again as he gulped for oxygen. He never enjoyed breathing this much in his life. Sherlock put his hand over his heaving chest, heart pounding painfully, head fuzzy from lack of oxygen. It took his impaired brain a moment to register John grabbing Culverton.

"What were you doing?!" John asked furiously, eyes fierce, teeth bared, vein popping out of his forehead.

 _John,_ Sherlock collapsed back onto the pillow, unaware that he had even sat up. John came. He was right. John _did_ care.

"He's in distress!" Culverton lied. "I was helping him."

John threw Culverton at the police officer standing in the doorway. "Restrain him _now_. Do it!" he barked.

Sherlock was taking in long breaths, relief coursing through his veins. John saved him. He was here.

"Sherlock, what was he doing to you?" John asked him.

Ah, right. The case. He had to prove Culverton was guilty. "Suffocating me," he voice came out weakly, "overdosing me." Speaking was difficult. He cleared his throat. He pointed to the direction of the IV drip, closing his eyes for a moment. _Suffocation takes quite a toll on the body, doesn't it?_

"Saline?" John asked in confusion.

He sat up on his elbow. "Yeah, saline. Got one of the nurses to switch the bags. She loves my blog," he said playfully. Maybe he was a little delirious from the suffocation. But he couldn't hide his pleasure of John being here, even if things were still so terribly wrong.

John was frowning. "Are you okay?"

Sherlock could have laughed at that, if it didn't require more oxygen. Was he okay? He felt like someone beat him with a baseball bat every day for weeks. "No, of course I'm not okay. Malnourished, double kidney failure, and frankly, I've been off my tits for weeks." He swallowed. _And you despise me._ The adrenaline was fading, and reality was returning. _Focus._ "What kind of doctor are you?" Sherlock asked, and it sounded light and teasing, but his ribs ached, and it felt like a genuine question. He settled back on the pillows. He was tired. "I got my confession, though."

"I don't recall making any confession," Culverton said. "Oh, Mr. Holmes, we found three potential recording devices in your coat."

Sherlock felt himself smile. "People always give up after the number three. Must be comforting." He looked at John.

"What?" he asked.

Sherlock smiled a little wider.

"What, what is it?" he asked, growing impatient.

Sherlock simply stared at him.

Then, something clicked in John's eyes, and he looked exasperated. "You cock."

Sherlock remembered the last time John called him that. It was when they were in the train car, right after he returned from the dead, right after John said, _Yes, of course I forgive you._ His heart clenched. "Yeah."

"You utter, utter cock."

Sherlock turned his face away, stretching, pretending to look disinterested. "Heard you the first time," he mumbled.

John walked over to his old cane, unscrewed the handle, and found the recording device. "Am I that predictable?" he asked.

Sherlock turned his head back. "No. I'm just a cock." _No, I just know you better than anyone ever has or will, including Mary._

They stared at each other. John looked caught between being angry and amused.

Sherlock wished his anger would go away. He sighed deeply, his lungs finally feeling normal. He looked over at the police officer. "Well, are you going to take him away?"

The officer seemed to snap back to reality and took a devastated Culverton Smith away.

 _Mission accomplished._ Sherlock closed his eyes, aware that John was still standing there. He remembered when John punched the chief superintendent in the face for insulting him. Now, he had to be knocking at Death's door for John to come help him. He desperately hoped John would want to rebuild their friendship after this, because if he didn't…

 _But you wanted this,_ Culverton had said to Sherlock as he prepared to murder him.

Sherlock shivered. He didn't know what he wanted anymore. He just didn't _know_.

He could hear footsteps approach the bed. "Sherlock?" John asked. "Do you…Are you in pain?"

 _More than you could know._ He got quite dramatic when in a sour mood. "I think that goes without saying." He didn't open his eyes.

"Anything I could do?"

 _Don't leave me._ "I imagine not. Everything must heal."

"And you'll stop doing drugs," John said firmly.

The glimpse of old, protective John made him feel nostalgic. "Obviously. The case is over." _And you're back._

"You know that's not how it works," he said. "You're probably going to go through hell with withdrawal."

"I'm aware," he said woodenly, dreading it. "But I don't want to use anymore."

"All right. Good." He heard John sigh. "Do you want to rest?"

 _Oh no._ "I'm quite tired."

"Yeah, I bet. Well, I'll just go-"

 _No!_ "Wait," Sherlock opened his eyes.

John looked at him, eyebrow raised.

He had no idea what to say. Well, no, he had a million things to say, but he knew John wanted to hear none of them. He had to lie. "I'm thirsty from the suffocation. Would you get me a water bottle from the machine down the hall?"

To his surprise, John's features actually softened by a fraction. "Oh, right. Yeah, sure. I'll be right back."

"Thank you," flashed him a grin.

John left the room.

Sherlock put his face in his hands. _I love John,_ he had cried to a serial killer barely ten minutes ago. He lifted his head. He couldn't lose his composure now. John was coming back. The tears stinging his eyes didn't care. He wiped at his eyes roughly, then wiped the tears on the back of his hand onto the sheet.

John came back inside with a water bottle in his hand. "Here you go," he held it out to Sherlock.

Sherlock took it and unscrewed the cap, drinking it quickly. Drinking was something to do other than crying. The water did feel nice, though.

He heard John give a small snort. "You really are thirsty." He cleared his throat. "I'm going to go now-"

Sherlock looked at him, lips frozen. He swallowed the water in his mouth.

"-and pick up Rosie," John finished.

Oh, right. Of course. He didn't need John to tell him that he and Rosie had been spending most days apart since Mary's death. This was a good sign, though. "That's nice," Sherlock said, lowering the bottle.

John cleared his throat again, looking a little uncomfortable, and perhaps guilty. "Yeah, um, yeah." He looked at Sherlock, and his shoulders lowered with a sigh. "Just try not to get yourself killed while I'm gone, okay?"

Sherlock nodded, looking down at his lap. He was selfish. He wanted John to stay here with him instead of with his daughter. That wasn't right.

"See you later," John said awkwardly, and walked out of the room.

Sherlock put the bottle on the floor next to the bed, turned on his side, and let his tears loose. His sobs drowned out the beeping heart monitor.


	2. Epilogue

Sherlock was surprised to see John enter his flat on the day after his birthday. Things were...better, he thought, than they were the day in the morgue, and when he was in the hospital bed. Upon discovering irrefutable proof that Culverton Smith was a killer and Sherlock wasn't completely out of his mind, John's faith in him seemed to have been restored, at least tentatively. They talked yesterday. More than they usually did, anyway. Sherlock was glad John let everything out about Mary and the cheating, and even trusted Sherlock enough to cry and let himself be vulnerable.

He had known John wasn't well, obviously, but was unaware he was _that_ bad-nor had he ever seen John in such a state before when he broke down into tears, and it shook Sherlock to his very core. John's small, agonized sobs broke Sherlock's heart, and he wished he had been able to hug John under happier circumstances. Learning about John's guilt over cheating made Sherlock understand his recent behavior better, and he deduced that John never really blamed him for Mary's death, but himself. It seemed obvious, in the end.

Sherlock had been incredibly relieved when John didn't push him away and allowed himself to receive help and comfort (there was a triumphant but desperate voice in his head as John let Sherlock hug him which said _He doesn't hate me, he doesn't hate me, he doesn't hate me)._ Sherlock was also pleased when John wanted to spend more time with him and take him out for cake.

Yesterday, although emotionally difficult for them both, had ended as well as it could have.

But, John hadn't said he was going to come over today. "John," Sherlock greeted, his surprise evident in his voice. "Hello."

"Hi," John shut the door behind him. His left hand twitched, and he clenched it. "Sorry, for popping in without notice."

"Don't be," Sherlock said, putting down the book he had been reading and crossing his legs in his chair. The position made his ribs hurt a little, but he ignored it. After realizing how distressed John was yesterday, he couldn't find it in himself to feel angry. Mycroft would call him stupid for that, but he didn't care. They were both at their worst, weren't they? They were both failing to cope with the misery Mary had inflicted upon them (inadvertently. Advertently? Sherlock wasn't sure anymore). They were _both_ at the bottom of a pit, and only kept falling deeper into despair until a literal life-or-death situation threw them back on their feet.

John came to save him. He cared. He did. _He does,_ Sherlock's mind said stubbornly as his heart panged. Their embrace felt like the beginning of the healing process. To Sherlock, there was no reason to dwell on it. (Right?) If John could see past how Sherlock was killing himself with drugs and knew it, then he could see past John losing his temper and snapping at him. It was a bad day for both of them. (Sherlock could picture Mycroft rolling his eyes at his justification.) But no. They could be better now. If they got through this, they would get through anything. They wouldn't be completely better overnight, but these things took time. He had to give their relationship time to heal entirely. (He was incredibly impatient.)

"How's Rosie?" Sherlock asked.

"Good," John nodded. "She's downstairs, actually."

"Oh? Why didn't you bring her up here?"

"Mrs. Hudson hadn't seen her in awhile," John said, walking towards his red chair, but stopping beside it. "And I wanted to talk to you. Alone. Without interruptions." He swallowed.

Sherlock felt a mixture of interest and anxiety in his chest. Something about John's tone and demeanor told him this was not going to be a lighthearted conversation. "Oh?"

John stared at him intently, licking his lips.

Sherlock felt scrutinized under his gaze (was this what other people felt like when he deduced them? It was unpleasant).

"You've shaved," John said suddenly.

Sherlock touched his smooth cheek. "Yes. I don't like stubble." And he was actually sober long enough to remember personal hygiene...

"Looks good," John nodded. "You look more like yourself."

Sherlock wasn't sure what to make of this. "I feel more like myself," he smiled briefly.

John smiled back.

Sherlock's heart sped up.

"That's good." His hand slid to the top of his chair, but he still didn't sit down, and his posture was still stiff.

"What is it, John?" Sherlock asked. He didn't like this.

John pressed his lips together, and he looked...abashed? Why? "Lestrade called. He told me about when Culverton was brought in for questioning."

"Why?" Sherlock asked. "He told me about it, and I already told you. Culverton couldn't stop confessing-case closed."

John's hand gripped the chair. "That wasn't the only confession he heard," he said quietly, looking down at the floor.

Then, it hit him like a ton of bricks. Lestrade heard Culverton make Sherlock confess that he loved John. Lestrade heard it. He called John. _He told John._ That traitor! But Sherlock had no time to be angry at Lestrade now. His jaw dropped, his heart raced, and he stopped breathing. John knew. His mouth shut with a click of his teeth, he started breathing again, and his eyes closed in shame, his cheeks heating, heart twisting. That was _not_ the way he ever wanted John to find out. It was like his worst nightmare came true.

Sherlock hated himself when his eyes stung. He tried to get himself under control as quickly as possible. Well, making up with John was nice while it lasted, he supposed. He swallowed past the lump in his throat. Sharp jabs of anxiety stabbed his stomach.

"I see," he said in a small voice. He was humiliated, and could not bring himself look at John. He closed his eyes, trying to control the pain on his face, but he wasn't sure he succeeded. There went any hope of repairing their relationship. He worried their friendship was over when Mary died, but somehow, this felt more like a nail in the coffin.

"Well. I do apologize. I was not thinking clearly and did not consider Lestrade would hear it, or that he would tell you." He had no idea how the hell he managed to form complete sentences. Perhaps he was simply used to heartbreak by this point. He should have known his confession would have been heard by Lestrade, but only unrequited love and the creeping hands of death were on his mind at the time.

"You…" John sounded confused.

Sherlock still had his eyes closed. What a coward he was.

"You _apologize_?" John asked incredulously. "You're fucking _sorry_?"

Sherlock's eyes flew open. What did he do wrong now? Weren't people supposed to apologize when they hurt others?

John was shaking his head, dark eyes wide in disbelief, thin lips parted. "You're unbelievable."

"I didn't intend to anger you," Sherlock muttered, face burning.

But that made John wince. "God, no, Sherlock, I'm not angry, you git."

"Your body language and tone say otherwise," he pointed out. He had no idea how to feel, but he still felt like he could bend over and throw up his guts any second, and his face was so hot, he felt like he could melt into a puddle of sweat. The only time his chest hurt more was when he was being suffocated. John just became a widower. Why would he even entertain the thought of having Sherlock when he wanted Mary back? He always chose Mary over him. Always, no matter what, he chose her. Sherlock had to try very hard not to hold his ears in an idiotic attempt to block out the negative, invasive voices in his mind. _He chose her. She always won._

John's face contorted further, and it would have been kind of funny in another situation. "Lestrade didn't just tell me, Sherlock," he said quietly. "He let me listen."

Sherlock wanted to flee and never return, but his muscles were glued to the chair. Bile sloshed around in his stomach. "That's illegal," he spluttered.

"When the hell has that ever mattered?" John asked rhetorically.

True. Sherlock had no words and lowered his eyes in shame. He felt like his heart was exposed, displayed in the middle of the floor, beating harshly and loudly.

An agonizing pause. Then, John asked, "Were you ever planning on telling me? Were you going to keep me in the dark for the rest of our lives?" He sounded hurt.

Sherlock actually felt a little bit of anger. "What, did I ever intend on having you tell me how you're not gay and you'll always love Mary?" he asked darkly, looking up at John from under his lashes.

John looked stricken, but he swallowed. "I-I see why you'd think I'd do that," he conceded, having the grace to look ashamed. "But you've got it wrong." The tension drained from his shoulders and he ran his hand over his tired face. "I really hurt you, didn't I?"

Sherlock was aware of his aching ribcage.

His expression crumpled. "In every way, I mean. You," his eyes welled with tears, "you felt that miserable over me? Were you-Sherlock, did you actually want to die?" he choked out.

Sherlock did not want to have this conversation, but he knew the answer. "No," he said, an invisible hand clutching his heart. "I wasn't in the right mind at all, John. You must understand that."

"Even so," he pressed on through unshed tears, "Smith taunted you. He asked how it felt when I," his voice cracked. He cleared his throat, his hand not gripping the chair gesturing towards Sherlock. "When I hit you." His jaw visibly clenched.

"John…" He didn't know what to do. "You were upset with me-"

"That doesn't bloody excuse it!" he exploded. Then he cursed under his breath and shook his head. "I need to stop shouting."

Sherlock was stunned.

When John lifted his head, the tears were spilling. "I never heard you that frightened or miserable, Sherlock, never. I did that to you." The look on his face was more anguished than when Mary got shot. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry for ever making you think I don't care about you, and I'm sorry I fucking hit you." His hand on the chair was gripping the material so tightly that Sherlock wouldn't have been surprised if he broke the piece of furniture.

But more importantly, his heart thumped with compassion. "John, it's okay-"

"No," John said sternly. "No, no it's fucking _not_ ," a tear dripped off his jaw and onto his jacket. He sighed miserably. "I don't even know where to begin, Sherlock. I fucked up so much," he cried, and then rubbed his eyes.

Sherlock didn't enjoy seeing John like this, but he had a feeling that John needed to talk about all of this. This conversation had to continue. Fighting past his anxious nausea, Sherlock said, "But I get it now, John. You were, or are, upset about being unfaithful to Mary and not being able to tell her before the aquarium. A lot happened in a short amount of time, and you had difficulty handling it."

John wiped his eye on his sleeve. "Yeah, you're right, okay? You're right. But I had no right to hit you the way I did." He stared at Sherlock for a moment. "Look, I thought you were going to stab Smith, so I tried to snap you out of it. But I took it too far, and I'm sorry. And it's not just that," he said when Sherlock was about to speak. His face was red from crying, but then the tips of his ears turned scarlet, too. He sniffed. "The sound of you telling that monster you…" He cleared his throat. "That you...that you love me…"

Sherlock felt like he could cry from the uncertainty he felt. This was torture. "John?"

John gulped, eyes filling with fresh tears. "It'll haunt me for the rest of my life," he said hoarsely.

Sherlock wanted to cover his face and hide and scream and run into John's arms all at the same time, and it resulted in him sitting as still as a statue. He wanted to beg, _Please, John, just tell me what you think of me!_ But, his lips were glued shut.

John shook his head, a dark, haunted expression clouding his face. "The thought of you-the _sound_ of you crying to a serial killer about me?"

Sherlock was mortified, and he closed his eyes, clenching his jaw so it wouldn't visibly tremble.

"I'm sorry," John said suddenly. "I didn't mean to make you feel bad, but," his tone turned grim, "I guess I've been doing that a lot lately." A pause, a muffled curse, and the sound of footsteps on the carpet.

Sherlock almost jumped when he felt hands on his knees and his eyes flew open.

John was on his knees in front of Sherlock, looking up at him with piercing, shining eyes and a deep frown. "I'm sorry about everything," John said somberly, hands gripping Sherlock's knees. "I really am. I'm sorry everything went so, so wrong between us." He bit the inside of his cheek, breathing deeply. "I meant it. I'm not sue I'll ever un-hear you and Culverton Smith, but I want to make it up to you. I want to try. Can I?" his voice broke, running his hands over Sherlock's knees and up the middle of his thighs. "Please?" His lower lip wobbled and he cried, "Please, Sherlock, please let me do right by you." His face crumpled and he ducked his head, whispering _I'm sorry, I'm sorry_ through his tears.

Sherlock wanted to put his hands on John's head and thread his fingers through his hair but he still had no idea what to do, and he still felt really sick, and he was still sweating, and his eyes burned as his vision blurred. He couldn't take it anymore. John still didn't tell him what how he felt about Sherlock's confession! "John," he almost moaned in despair, "I can't stand this any longer. What did you think when you me say that?"

John looked up at him, tear tracks on his cheeks. "That I don't deserve your love," he rasped, "but I'd be a fucking liar if I said I'm not grateful to have it."

A small sound came from Sherlock's throat without his consent, and John stood up and wrapped his arms around his shoulders. He tangled one of his hands in Sherlock's curls, letting out a trembling breath. "I love you, too," he whispered into Sherlock's ear.

A sharp shiver rippled down Sherlock's spine and he felt John hold him tighter. The nausea went away but now his heart was beating violently, and those four words broke him. The last of his resolve cracked and shattered, and he started weeping in John's arms. Could it actually be true?

"No, no, no," John shushed him, voice hoarse, but soft. "I'm sorry you went through all of that, but I want to make things right."

His throat was tight, and it was so hard to believe that he felt insecure. "Are-" his voice came out in a sob, and he wanted to scream at himself for being so pathetic. "Are you just saying that?"

John pulled back, looking like he'd been slapped. "No, Sherlock. I really mean it."

"But, Mary-"

John placed his hand on Sherlock's face, thumb wiping away a tear below his eye. His own face was still wet with tears and his brow was furrowed. "She's gone, Sherlock." His shoulders slumped, and he looked very tired. "I don't know how the hell I feel about her. It's all fresh, and…" He pulled his hand back, and it was his ring hand. He took his wedding ring off his finger, sighing. "I'm still not okay," he told Sherlock. "But, she's gone, and you're here, and wasn't I just on you yesterday about not missing chances?"

Hot tears were still rolling down his face, but Sherlock asked bitterly, "Am I just a replacement, then?"

John's mouth dropped open. "What? Sherlock, no." He lowered his hand with the ring clasped between his fingers, and put the ring in his jeans pocket. He put his other hand on Sherlock's cheek instead, palm warm. The sun shining in from the window made John's dark eyes light up. His ears were growing red again. He took a deep breath. "Sherlock, listen to me," he said in his no-nonsense voice, but then a flash of apprehension in his eyes made him clear his throat. His courage seemed short-lived and he looked afraid. "I've loved you for a ridiculous amount of time. I never said anything because I didn't think _you_ felt that way. Just last night! I told you to go with the bloody Woman, and you didn't say a thing!"

He had a point. But Sherlock's mind was stuck replaying _I've loved you for a ridiculous amount of time._ He had to focus. This was important. His tears were subsiding. "I didn't want to ruin things," he said gruffly. "We just started getting back to normal."

John's face was sympathetic. "Yeah," he gave a humorless laugh, "yeah, been there."

That made Sherlock grin, and the tension was slowly melting away. This...this was really happening.

"I think I get it now," John said, "why you didn't say anything, I mean. Especially after…" his eyes flickered down. "After what a horrible prick I was to you."

Trembling slightly, Sherlock placed his hand over John's, causing him to look back up and for their eyes to lock. His heart pounded, and he held John's fingers. He blinked at him, studying his face, and saw no secrets, just raw emotion. This was real. It was happening. "You…" His mouth felt dry. He swallowed. "You love me."

"I do," John said sincerely, staring into his eyes. "I never thought you would, and-and I don't know how you still could after everything," he said, face wracked with guilt.

A hard _thump_ kicked his heart, and Sherlock lowered John's hand from his face, and he held it in both of his larger hands. "How could I not?" he asked softly.

John blinked and gave him a watery smile, and Sherlock smiled back, but his vision was getting blurry again as his mind finally started to accept this as reality. John loved him. John actually loved him.

"Hey, now," John murmured, and Sherlock was back in his arms, but this time, Sherlock returned the hug, hands going to John's back, fingers clutching the fabric of his jacket. He remembered how alone and frightened he felt in the bed with Culverton, and he started shaking. If only he'd known then that John would make his desires come true…

"Oh, Sherlock," John whispered, "I'm so, so sorry. I want to make you happy, even though I know I can never make up for what I did-"

"You can," Sherlock interjected, putting his face in John's neck, fingers hurting from grabbing the jacket so tightly. "You can, John. Just…"

"Just what?" John asked with a hint of urgency.

It was embarrassing, but John heard him confess his love to a serial killer, so he had nothing to lose. "Just be with me," he said meekly. _Please._

"I will," John squeezed him. "I will, Sherlock, if you'll let me."

Sherlock could only nod silently, clutching to John like his life depended on it. He felt John's hand gently caress the thick curls at the back of his head.

"I wanted you for so long and I fucked everything up so badly," John said into his hair.

"We can make it better," Sherlock insisted, vaguely aware that he sounded like a child. "I forgive you, John."

Sherlock felt John sigh. "I think it's going to take us a long time to really be okay, Sherlock."

He nodded into John's neck. "You're probably right," he said, voice muffled. He had no idea how good it would feel to be in John's arms. The embrace and John's words of love were a balm to his wounds. But John was upset, and he didn't want either of them to be upset anymore. Hadn't they spent enough time trapped in misery? "But, we can begin to make things right now," he mumbled.

John pulled back, but cupped the back of Sherlock's neck with his hand. He was frowning. "Is it that easy? I heard how upset you were, Sherlock. That was just a few days ago."

"I wish you hadn't," he muttered, looking down at his lap.

"I know," he said patiently, hand sliding down to his shoulder. "But, it hurt to hear you like that. It really did," he stressed. "I don't ever want you that distraught again, especially not over me."

Sherlock looked up at him from under his lashes. "If you're with me, then I won't be," he said honestly.

John looked caught between wanting to protest and grinning. He pressed his lips together. "Just, don't ever think I don't care about you, okay? You're everything to me."

Goosebumps broke out on Sherlock's arms, and warmth filled his chest. "Really?"

"Really," John said softly. His eyes traveled down to his lips, but then he looked back up at Sherlock. "I only wish, the first time I heard you say that, it had been for a different reason, and it had been to me," he said sadly, hand sliding down Sherlock's arm and resting on top of his hand.

Sherlock's blush reached down his neck. "It wasn't exactly how I imagined it would ever go, either." The memory of Culverton's demented smile mocking him as his lungs screamed for air made him flinch.

John held his hand. "Sherlock?" he asked hesitantly. "Can you...can you say it now?"

He was pulled back to the present and his heart raced. "You want me to?" Years of fearing rejection left an impact on him, and his legs squirmed a little in the chair.

"I really do," John told him, rubbing the top of his hand soothingly. "It'll be okay, I promise."

Sherlock was aware that he was breathing heavily, and it this point, his whole body had broken out in a sweat. He bit his lip hard, and somehow, it was easier to say to a serial killer. He was staring right into John's beautiful face, and it made him speechless.

John squeezed his hand. "Please? Nothing bad will happen when you say it. It'll be a good thing, Sherlock."

Right, right, John loved him. It was okay now. "I," his voice sounded stiff to his ears, "I…" John's beautiful face was beginning to show signs of doubt and insecurity, so Sherlock finished the sentence. "I love you," he choked out, and it felt like a knot released in his stomach.

John's lips broke out into a smile, and Sherlock felt himself mirroring it. That felt good. "I do, John, and can I be honest with you?"

"Absolutely."

"You're a moron for thinking I loved the Woman."

John giggled, the corners of his eyes crinkling, and he hadn't looked so happy since before Mary's death. "I guess I am, aren't I?"

"It's all right." Sherlock's lips were tingling from the effort not to beam widely. _I love you for it,_ he wanted to say, but didn't feel comfortable enough yet. Maybe John was onto something about this all taking time, after all, he thought wistfully.

But then John was looking down at his lips. "You love me?" he asked, a tinge of huskiness to his voice.

Sherlock nodded, eyes instinctively going to John's lips.

"Can we kiss?"

 _Oh my god._ He nodded frantically.

It was a slow, careful press of lips, John moving in with an air of caution. Sherlock breathed shakily out of his nose, the feel of John's moist lips on his more intense than the drugs running through his veins just a few days ago. He felt the warm puff of air from John's nose on his face, and he reached up to cling a hand to the collar of his jacket. Sherlock was pressing back into the kiss with a small, deep subconscious moan, which was loud in contrast to the silence of the room. He felt John put his hand on his chest, its weight warm and solid. It was reassuring.

John opened his mouth and deepened the kiss, but only slightly, keeping it gentle. Sherlock wanted to be enveloped in his arms, bury his face in his broad chest, and be held. It was a terribly pathetic thing to admit, even to himself, but that was what he wanted. It was really hitting him. There was a point when he thought John never wanted to see him again, and now John said he loved him, and was kissing him. Sherlock's chest was heaving.

"What is it?" John asked against his lips. "Tell me," his hand rubbed Sherlock's chest.

Why was he being stupid? He should have been over the moon (and he was happy about this-really! But why did he still feel sorrow?). Sherlock opened his eyes, and their faces were so close it was dizzying.

"Why're you crying again?" John asked in concern, hand rubbing soothing circles above his heart.

He was crying? Maybe. "It's-a lot," he admitted. "I thought you never wanted to see me again, and now-"

Both of John's hands were on his face and his mouth was smashed against Sherlock's. He pulled back with a hard _smack_ of their lips, his eyes fierce. "Listen to me, Sherlock Holmes," he said lowly, "I am a prick, a complete and utter prick, but I give you my word right here and right now: I will never leave you. Never. I love you, and want nothing more than to be with you. I was acting like a bloody tool, but all of that? It'll never happen again. I'll stay by your side, and never hurt you again. This is my vow to you."

His words wrapped around Sherlock like an embrace, and Sherlock believed him. He felt two tears drip down his cheeks after he blinked, but it was from relief now. "Okay," he rasped.

John held his face lovingly. "Like I said, it'll take us time to get there," he said, moving in for Sherlock's lips again, "but tell me how I can begin to make us right."

"Just kiss me," Sherlock whispered.

John did, and with each gentle caress of his lips, and the warm security of John's hands on his face, the hollowness in Sherlock's chest was filled with tranquility, and he found himself confessing his love over and over again between kisses, and those three words were returned each time.

They would be okay, in time.


End file.
